Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Read online

  I nodded as I picked up the discarded shotgun, laying it carefully out of reach.

  “Call my cousin Rooster,” she said, still training the gun on Roger. “Tell ’im we got some trash that’s ready for pick-up.”

  So, it was Roger all along,” Quinn said as we raised two jam jars filled with wine to toast my new non-suspect status later that night. When Flora told Rooster what she’d heard Roger say, he looked as if he’d swallowed something that wasn’t sitting right. He didn’t look at me all night—until I asked if he still wanted me to come down to the station. The answer, thankfully, was negative.

  “Thank goodness Flora kept the door open and heard everything,” I said as I relaxed back into the saggy couch. Quinn had used her nervous energy tidying the little farmhouse while I was at the Kocureks’, and it felt warm and cozy. The only sign of Jed’s recent intrusion was a small dent in the pie safe—and the absence of my chunky poodle begging for bits of the cheese and crackers Quinn had set out on the coffee table. I kept reaching to pet Chuck, and then remembering he was still at the vet clinic. I missed him.

  “Thank goodness Flora had the presence of mind to lay hands on her pistol,” Quinn added, shivering. “I know people think I should have one around, but I hate guns.”

  “Me too,” I said. “But I’m glad Flora feels differently.”

  “Sounds like she channeled her mama for a few minutes there.”

  “Certainly the force of will was there, but the language was a bit more colorful.”

  “Did she really tell you to call Rooster to come and pick up some trash?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t know she had it in her.”

  “Me neither.” Quinn took a sip of her wine. “Think she’ll be okay?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m sure it’s got to be a real letdown, though. She seemed to be crazy about him.”

  “First love,” Quinn said, swirling the contents of her glass. “It will be hard. Maybe we can reach out to her a bit.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “She’s going to have to do some work to find herself; she’s lost her mother and her fiancé in the same week.”

  “Maybe you can talk her out of drilling for oil on Dewberry Farm. You kept her from marrying a man who planned to murder her, after all. That’s got to be worth something.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’d hate to see Buttercup turned into an oil and gas hub.”

  “Speaking of oil and gas, what does this mean for the properties that were bought up by Frac-Tex? Will they be able to frack them?”

  “I don’t know. They’ll probably be sued for property damage—maybe even fraud,” I said. “There’ll be huge penalties, I imagine. I’m guessing we won’t need to worry about fracking just yet.”

  Quinn and I were silent for a few minutes, thinking, before she asked, “Why did Roger kill Nancy?”

  “She’d overheard him telling Faith Zapalac that he’d done in Nettie,” she said. “Plus, she knew he was using pesticides to contaminate salt licks.”

  “I heard about John Chovanek going into the hospital,” Quinn said. “I hope he’s okay.”

  “Does that mean Faith will be arrested?”

  “I imagine so,” I said. “Accessory after the fact. She’s also been involved in that shady land deal with Frac-Tex, too. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “You’ve had a busy night,” she said. “Solved two murders, saved yourself from jail, and freed a woman from marrying a black widower.”

  “Not bad for a night’s work, I suppose,” I said, reaching for a cracker. “But there’s still one case we haven’t solved.”

  “Oh, really?”

  I pointed to the lockbox that was sitting on the counter. “We still don’t know what happened to Thomas Mueller.”

  “You have an idea, though,” she said.

  “I do. And I think Flora may have another shock coming to her.”

  The sun was high in the sky and the fields of bluebonnets were rippling like waves in the breeze when I got in the truck the next morning, setting a fresh dewberry cobbler on the seat next to me, beside the lockbox. Blossom was in the pasture, sniffing around the bluebonnets for tasty morsels as I pulled out of the driveway and headed to the Kocureks’ ranch.

  This time, when I stopped at the end of the driveway, I didn’t even have to speak into the intercom before the gate swung open. By the time I made it up to the cattle guard at the end of the driveway, Flora was standing at her front door, bony arms crossed tight over her chest, waiting for me. I grabbed the cobbler and hurried to the door.

  Whatever fire had animated Flora the night before had gone out. She was ashen, and looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. “Are you doing okay?” I asked.

  She nodded in a way that was not at all convincing, and invited me in with the barest wave of a pale hand.

  I ducked through the door and waited for her to come in, then followed her listless walk to the kitchen, where I set the cobbler on the gold laminate countertop. The lights were fluorescent rods, one of which was flickering, and it looked as if nothing in the kitchen, including the green-and-gold-flecked linoleum flooring, had been touched since 1975.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “But I’ll make it. You just sit down. Can I cut you a piece of cobbler?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, “but go ahead.”

  At least she hadn’t thought I’d poisoned it.

  I busied myself measuring Folgers into the yellowed Mr. Coffee, then sat down across from Flora.

  “Thank you for saving my life last night,” I said. “You were absolutely amazing.”

  She sighed. “Mama was right. Mama’s always right.”

  “No she wasn’t,” I said. “Maybe Roger didn’t turn out to be Prince Charming—maybe she was right about that.”

  “Not Prince Charming?” For a moment I saw a glimpse of the fire she’d displayed last night. “He was a murdering sonofabitch!”

  “Okay,” I said. “So your first love didn’t turn out as well as you’d hoped. It happens to almost all of us. Was he your first love?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “First loves almost always crater; it’s part of the learning process. You’re just getting started a little later than most of us,” I said.

  She looked up at me. “Really?”

  “Really. And I ended up with quite a few duds. I almost married one.”

  “What happened?”

  “He ran up the credit cards spending money on his girlfriend,” I told her, still feeling the sting, even though it was years ago. Last I heard he was in Topeka selling used cars. And probably still living off one of his serial girlfriends.

  “How did you find out about the girlfriend?”

  “When she called him to say the credit card he’d given her was being rejected, and I picked up the phone,” I told her. “I’m still a bit gun-shy, to be honest.” I grinned at her, remembering how she’d leveled the pistol at her fiancé’s head the night before. “Thankfully, you’re not.”

  “That’s pretty bad,” she said, smoothing back a strand of brown hair, “but at least he wasn’t planning on killing you.”

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “Come to think of it, he was pretty lucky to get off without me killing him.”

  “So was Roger,” she said.

  “You were magnificent. ‘Murdering, yellow-bellied snake . . . ’ He was shaking in his boots!”

  A small smile crept across her pale face. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” I said. “You’ve got spunk. You might not have had a chance to let it out much yet, but it’s there.”

  “Thanks,” she said in a small voice. It was quiet for a moment, except for the gurgling of the coffeepot.

  “The one thing I wonder,” I said, “was where he got that Moravian lamb pin. I saw a picture of the people who were awarded pins, and Roger wasn’t in it. I didn’t even know he attended the Brethren Church.”r />
  “He went on Sundays because of me, and helped them fix the roof. Father Mikeska gave out the pins on Christmas, but he wasn’t there because he had the flu,” she said. “I brought his pin home for him.”

  “That explains it,” I said, and got up to pour two cups of coffee.

  Flora started up. “I can do that.”

  “I can take care of it,” I told her.

  “Are you sure?” When I assured her I’d be happy to do it, she said, “Milk’s in the fridge, and sugar’s on the counter.” I doctored our cups and returned to the table, and we both sipped the rather bland brew. She put down her cup and looked at me. “I’ve made a decision about Dewberry Farm, by the way.”

  My stomach tightened, but I put my cup down slowly. “Yes?”

  “I’m giving you the mineral rights,” she said. “It wasn’t fair, what my mama did.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said, smiling.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling giddy with relief. The thumper truck wouldn’t be back again. Ever.

  “It’s only fair,” she said. “And it’s the least I can do, considering you saved me from marrying a murderer.” Her smile tugged down a bit.

  “Speaking of fair,” I replied, not sure if this was the time, but not sure if it would ever be the time, “I’ve come across some information on your family—your grandmother, to be exact—and I think you should know about it.”

  “My grandmother?”

  “Your mother’s mother. I started researching when I found a lockbox up in my barn,” I said. “Let me get it; it’ll be easier if I show you.”

  I hurried out to the truck and returned quickly with the lockbox.

  “What does this have to do with my grandmother?” she asked, puzzled.

  I took a deep breath as I opened the box, removing the copies of the marriage certificates and the birth certificate I had put inside. “Your grandmother was married before she married Alvin Kocurek,” I said, handing her the piece of paper recording Anna Baca’s marriage to Thomas Mueller.

  Flora blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “She fell in love with Thomas Mueller,” I said.

  “But . . . but he’s German! My great-grandfather never would have allowed that!”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  She shook her head. “This can’t be right. I’ve never heard anything about it.”

  “He died about a week after marrying your grandmother. She married Alvin Kocurek about a month later.” I handed her the second certificate.

  “I didn’t know that,” she told me. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Here’s your mother’s birth certificate,” I said. “Look at the dates.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

  “Just look,” I said, and she did. Then her eyes widened. “She was born only seven months after she married my grandfather.” She looked up at me. “Do you mean . . . Mama was half German?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  Flora looked at me, and then, a moment later, began to giggle. It was contagious; soon, the two of us were laughing so hard I was doubled over, wiping tears from my eyes. “I don’t believe it,” Flora gasped between giggles. “My mother didn’t want me to marry a German . . . and she was half-German after all!”

  And then she burst into tears again.

  When I’d gotten her calmed down, Flora asked the question I was wondering if she’d come around to. “So the guy who died must have been my grandfather,” she said. “I wonder what happened to him?”

  “He was murdered at a train station a few towns away from here,” I said. “It was never solved.”

  She blanched. “That’s terrible!”

  “I know,” I said. “I keep thinking there’s got to be another side to this. Do you think there might be some of your grandmother’s things stashed away somewhere? If so, maybe there’s a clue to their relationship.”

  “There’s a trunk that used to belong to her out in the barn,” Flora said. “I’ve never opened it.”

  “Are you up for taking a look?”

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s not like I’ve got wedding planning to do anymore.”

  Together, we hopped across the cattle guard and walked over to the hulking barn. As she opened the oversized doors, the light gleamed on the nearest Cadillac. “Are those all your mom’s old cars?”

  “She couldn’t bear getting rid of them,” Flora said, standing with her hands on her bony hips. “Now. If I could just remember where I saw it.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It’s brown,” she said. “Wood.”

  We dug through the barn for about twenty minutes before I spotted a likely suspect under a rusted push mower. “Is this it?” I asked. Flora waded through the stacks of junk toward me. “I think so,” she said. Together we excavated it from beneath the mower and carried it to the front of the barn, sneezing from the dust we’d disturbed.

  It wasn’t locked, and yet another cloud of dust billowed up as we lifted the lid.

  A crushed pink hat, yellowed with age, was the first thing we saw. Flora lifted it; under it was a tray filled with what appeared to be costume jewelry and little mementos. “Look,” she said. “It’s a ticket for The Nutcracker in Houston.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “Nineteen thirty-nine,” she said. She picked up a cameo brooch. “I recognize this from a photo my mama had,” she said. “This is Grandma Anna’s trunk.”

  Grandma Anna had kept all kinds of things: ticket stubs, broken jewelry, handkerchiefs, and hats. It was amazing that all of it had been stuffed into a small trunk. We were nearing the bottom when Flora uncovered a small book bound in blue leather and a stack of yellowed letters tied with a faded red ribbon.

  Flora looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “Let’s take a look and find out,” I said. She carefully untied the ribbon and opened the first letter. It was addressed to Anna, in a masculine hand.

  “Bingo,” I breathed. We skimmed the letters, hoping for a clue. We found one, toward the end of the stack. I don’t care how much money your daddy offers me, Thomas wrote. You’re worth all the money in the world to me.

  “So romantic,” Flora said, and I could sense the emotion in her voice. We looked through the rest of the letters; they ended abruptly, just before the date of the wedding.

  “So we know Josef Baca wasn’t too excited about the marriage. And that he did offer money to him.” I thought about it. “They thought robbery might be the cause of the murder—Thomas’ wallet was missing when they found him.”

  “Do you think he took the payoff and left town?”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “They were already married.”

  “Unless he was planning on taking the money and then having her meet him somewhere?” Flora suggested.

  “I don’t know,” I said, picking up the leather-bound book at the bottom of the trunk and handing it to Flora. The word “DIARY” was embossed in gold on the front. “Maybe the answer is in here.”

  She opened it up. The pages were filled with a neat, schoolteacher-ish hand. “The entries are dated,” Flora said.

  “Can you find the time near the wedding?”

  She flipped through the pages. “Right here,” she said, and I sat down beside her to read the entry dated May 25, 1939: the date of the wedding.

  We did it. Thomas borrowed a truck and met me in town, and we drove to the courthouse in La Grange. We’re married! We’ll take the late train to Dallas next Tuesday; Thomas heard about a job there, and that way we’ll be far away from Daddy. I hope he changes his mind; I love him, and I will miss my family so much. But I can’t live without Thomas.

  “So they were leaving on the train,” I said. “What’s the next entry?”

  There were a couple more talking about preparations for the journey, and a secret rendezvous in a barn loft, presumably at Dewberry Farm. She flipped thr
ough another few pages, then stopped, her finger at the top of a page dated June 1. “Here’s one from the day he died.”

  Daddy suspects, she had written. He must have heard something; he’s forbidden me to leave the house. I’ll have to sneak out a window after dark; I hope I won’t be too late to make it to the 8:00 train. We should have left last week. I should have known we couldn’t keep everything secret. Somebody must have told him he bought the tickets. I can’t believe this is happening, and pray we will get away.

  The next entry was in an unruly script, jagged. No change in date.

  He left without me. Daddy got home late, after midnight. He says he met him at the station at eight and paid him five thousand dollars to leave me alone, and then he got on the train without me. I am devastated. I can’t believe he’s gone; surely something happened, and he’s taking the money to help us start our little family and will call for me to follow him. He wouldn’t leave me like that—I know it. We’re married now. I have money in my bottom drawer; as soon as I can leave the house, I’m going to the station and getting on the first train to Dallas. I’ll find him there. I know I will.

  There were smudges on the page where the ink had smeared. Tears, likely. And the next entry—loose, disjointed script, almost a scrawl.

  Thomas is gone. My husband, the love of my life, is gone. He’s dead. Daddy says someone must have stolen the money he gave him and killed him, but I don’t believe him. His shotgun wasn’t in the gun rack after he left to go to the station; I checked. I don’t know how he did it, but he made him go to Gruenwald without me and then he shot him and left him dead. And I can’t tell the police. They’d never believe me.

  I have to get out of this house. I cannot live with the man who murdered my husband.

  Flora looked up at me. “My great-grandfather was a murderer,” she said.

  “I hate to say it, but it sounds like it,” I said.

  “And he murdered my grandfather!” She closed the book and sighed. “And my grandfather was German, of all things. My whole life has been turned upside down. My mother, and then Roger, and now . . . this.”